Zinfandel
by vanillafluffy
Summary: Emile Danko has a mistress who knows him as Jakob, a mild-mannered insurance adjuster. He also knows Sylar, a shapeshifter who has a twisted sense of humor. The question is, which one is he spending the evening with?


**Zinfandel**

Irina is waiting for him when he returns home. Danko looks closely at her; clearly she was caught in the rain earlier. The scarf holding back her long dark hair is almost translucent with moisture, and the paper bags contained in the mesh tote she carries are water-spotted.

He's had a long week. Dealing with Taub-Sylar has been a tightrope act of caution and danger, and the unheralded visit from his mistress is suspect. It's hard not to suspect everyone, now that that sociopath has added shape-shifting to his repertoire. But if Sylar has chosen to impersonate Irina, kudos to him for getting the details perfect, from her tremulous smile to the wet-dog smell of her old wool coat, a little heavy for a damp May afternoon.

Weighing the risks, he holds the door open for her, lets her precede him into the apartment. She makes her way to the kitchen with her parcels as he resets the security system, and by the time he walks in, she's unpacked a loaf of crusty bread---it can't have been out of the oven for more than an hour. The freshly baked smell is comforting. There's a wedge of fragrant cheese, a jar of olive tapenade. Finally, she sets a bottle of wine on the counter---zinfandel.

"I thought we might have a little picnic supper, Jakob. Is that all right?"

Ah, Irina. Always so willing to please him, with that charming concern that she may not satisfy him completely. Of course, she doesn't know him as ruthless Emile Danko, only by his cover identity.

"That sounds very nice," he reassures her. "Let me get your coat while you take care of that." He smiles. "I'd offer to let you use my hair dryer, but as a matter of fact, I don't have one."

She giggles mischievously at the thought, and rises on her toes like a ballerina to deliver a kiss to his cheek. "Such a gentleman!" She slides the scarf back, freeing her dark mane and shaking her head to give the curling tresses more fullness. He takes the garments to the foyer, hanging them up to dry and air out.

It does sound good, after the week he's had, to spend a rainy Friday evening with his mistress, indulging in a simple but luxe meal. Then, of course, he'll have his way with her, urgent carnal activity to release the tensions of the last few days. Although the end of the evening is a forgone conclusion, this stage still has the illusion of a real date; Danko programs slow jazz on the player, adjusts the lights in the living room to create an intimate atmosphere.

Although he studies her carefully, Irina does nothing to alarm him; he watches closely as she uncorks the wine and pours. She goes through the procedure casually, no overt attempts to poison him, nothing to suggest that she is anything but the sensuous immigrant he's known for the past two years. She's wearing a familiar red dress that he's seen on her often. The lemony scent of the soap she likes lingers on her skin. He's being paranoid, but....

"Wait," he says as she lifts her glass. "Switch with me."

She looks from him to the glass, extends it to him with a puzzled look and accepts his in return. Of course, he realizes as he sips, if she really was Sylar, trying to pull a fast one, it wouldn't make any difference. Sylar could probably suck down shots of acid and survive.

"Is something wrong, Jakob?"

"I know you usually give me the best portion of anything," he says, thinking swiftly. "This time I wanted you to have the best...my lovely Irina."

"You're so good to me," she says, blushing. The compliment has lit her up...she's really a very easy woman to please. Make her feel pretty, make her feel secure, and she's quite obliging about satisfying his needs.

Sometimes, like tonight, she anticipates needs he wasn't aware of. Making time for food and companionship usually falls well below achieving sexual gratification, but this cozy bacchanalia is helping to loosen him up. They're side by side on the sofa. On the coffee table before them, Irina has their meal attractively displayed. The bread has been carved into hearty bites and is fanned out around the perimeter of the platter, with the tapenade in a small bowl for dipping in the center, while chunks of the cheese are arranged symmetrically in the remaining space. It's more of a fuss than he'd ever make, but it's pleasant to be fussed over.

The buttery cheese compliments the tart zinfandel, the bread is crusty on the outside, tender within. Spread with the tapenade, fed to him by his doting Irina, it's a feast. As she offers him a bite of cheese from between her own lips, resulting in a kiss, Danko is aware of another appetite awakening. He makes the kiss a demand, and Irina's free hand drops to the erection straining against his trousers.

Before he can pull her to him, she moves gracefully, straddling him, clever hands busy with his belt. He grabs the hem of the red dress and lifts it; she works with him to peel it over her head. Under it, she's wearing a lacy buttercup-colored bra and Danko is amused to note that she has one condom tucked in each cup. "No panties?"

Irina blushes. "I left them in the kitchen," she admits.

The wine has done its work; he finds this amusing, picturing the matching yellow panties hanging amid his pot holders and dish towels. He chuckles, kissing the side of her neck as she fumbles with the condom. "Need a hand with that, sweetheart?"

"Perhaps I've had too much wine," she says, sitting back and reaching for a glass. She sips from it demurely, looking at him with a wanton smile.

"Give me that," he demands with mock-anger. She relinquishes it and he drains the last few swallows with one gulp. "Now, get back to what you were doing."

"Are you sure you don't mean, 'who' I was doing?" Her hands are on him again, rolling the latex down to the base of his cock. Slowly, she squeezes the thick shaft, her knowledgeable fingers teasing him. One nail lightly glides the length of him, tantalizing nerve endings.

Her left hand is on his shoulder for balance, her right is between their bodies, guiding him into place. Her breasts are at the perfect height for him to suckle, left nipple, right nipple, left, suction harder now, with a hint of incisor.

Irina moans, the sound vibrating against his lips. She sinks down onto his erection, her heat surrounding him. Her hips shimmy in little circles, rising and lowering by minute increments, sweet, sweet friction…then she ascends almost to the glans and plunges down again with a low grunt of satisfaction. She builds this into a rhythm, a bump and grind that apparently pleases her very much if her expression of fierce concentration is anything to go by.

He can't recall her ever being quite so…purposeful…before. Perhaps it's the wine, loosening her inhibitions. Or maybe he should grab that cheese knife from the coffee table and bury it in the base of her skull…but he'd hate to be wrong, if Irina is truly capable of such sexual abandon. Really, the little noises she's making add to his own pleasure---at some level, it sounds like she's being tortured---mewling deep in her throat, frantic….

She offers her breasts to him again, and this time he nips at the tender flesh. She'll have some bruises, if it's really her. Her whimpers go up an octave and she rides him rapidly with short, hard strokes that transform onto slow, hard tremors as her vocalizations soften into breathy gasps. She's motionless now, rubbing the side of her face against his.

Danko's palm connects with her ass, a stinging slap that gets her attention. "Forget something?" he growls. "Or do you want me to roll you over and fuck you into the sofa?"

Bending forward, her mouth meets his, then her teeth sink into his lower lips for an instant before she resumes her gyrations. "Forget?" she murmurs as her hips corkscrew around his prick. "How could I possibly forget something so…" An urgent whine, and he slaps her butt again, trying to keep her attention on him, but it doesn't seem to help. "…so hard, yesss…that's so good…there, right there---!" And she's lost in another climax, louder this time.

He should get her drunk more often, he thinks, because by the time she gets him off, she's orgasmed a half-dozen times and looks like a satisfied Mona Lisa. For his part, Danko feels thoroughly fucked and is more than a little pleased with his stamina.

Without fanfare, Irina begins to tidy up the remains of their picnic. He accepts a glass of the last of the zinfandel, and toasts her. "To my lady, whose prowess in the arts of love are unsurpassed!" She blows him a kiss, then carries the tray and empty bottle to the kitchen.

After three glasses of wine, his bladder is grumbling, so Danko uses the facilities and returns to find a clean coffee table and an empty couch, although the scent of sex lingers. Striding into the kitchen, he almost runs into…Sylar.

Naked Sylar. Sylar, smiling like a Cheshire alley-cat with a familiar dress over his arm. In a heartbeat, the older man's afterglow is replaced with fury and humiliation.

Danko's first instinct is to gut him on the spot, but Sylar kinetically yanks the knife out of his reach. "Emile, I'm shocked!" he says, familiar baritone playful, "Is that any way to treat a lady? You should feel honored."

"Like hell!" Danko swears in several languages, and Sylar waits patiently for him to run out of steam.

"No, really! That was my first time with a man…at least, my first time as a woman." He winks, shows his teeth. "You like it a little rough, do you? I'll have to keep that in mind for next time."

"There's not going to be a next time, you freak!"

"Why not? I know you liked it. I know I liked it." With Sylar's powers of lie-detection, denial is futile. Should've used the cheese knife….

Something's happening…his knees are rubbery, and his adversary seems to be going in and out of focus. "You drugged me?"

"Twice." Suddenly he's floating inches off the floor, and Sylar propels him into the living room, through that and into the bedroom. He's reclining on his bed with no impact, and his inadvertent playmate smiles down at him. "You weren't expecting to be drugged after sex---there was Xanax in the zinfandel."

"Twice?" he manages to mumble. He's going to be unconscious any minute now---god knows what kind of position he'll wake up in---he'd be alarmed, if he wasn't so well tranquilized.

"The olive spread was loaded with Viagra. Good stuff, huh? Sweet dreams, lover boy…."

More like sweet nightmares.


End file.
